


Sleepy

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort Reading, Comfort Sex, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Insomnia, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Sleepy Sex, Soft and Fluffy, Vulnerable Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 20:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19236469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: A weary Mycroft is kept awake one night; his husband comforts him back to sleep.





	Sleepy

"You okay, love?"

Mycroft inhales, letting his eyes fall shut. The bedroom ceiling and all its shadows vanish from his sight.

"A touch of insomnia," he murmurs, weary. It feels unearthly and strange to hear his own voice after hours of silence. "Go back to sleep, darling... I'm sorry if I woke you."

His husband stirs beneath the sheets.

"You didn't," he says, as his weight shifts across the mattress toward Mycroft. He eases an arm across Mycroft's chest, its weight heavy and familiar and reassuring, and hooks one ankle gently around his shin. A gentle, quiet kiss presses to Mycroft's cheek. "How long've you been awake?" his lover asks.

He finds himself too tired even to lie. "A little over two hours now."

Greg's nose nuzzles into his cheek. His hand slips down to stroke Mycroft's belly, smoothing the cotton fabric with slow and gentle sweeps. "M'sorry," he rumbles, and Mycroft knows at once that he means it. It rather tightens his throat. "Something on your mind?"

"No... no, nothing of note... just falling back into my tedious pattern, I fear."

"Mmhm..." His lover's fingers ease beneath the hem of his pyjama shirt, brushing over the warm skin of his stomach. The casual intimacy of the touch feels desperately reassuring. _I'm here,_ Greg's fingers seem to say. _I'm right here._ "D'you want me to fetch you a cuppa? Mug of camomile, maybe?"

Mycroft almost smiles. _My perfect Greg._ "I'm alright, darling... thank you. I worry that if I accept the inevitable, and get up, I'll be up for the day... and this evening, we have that blasted dinner—at the..."

"Ahh... is that tonight?"

"Mm. It's likely to go on late."

"Need your sleep," Greg concludes, softly, and brushes a kiss along Mycroft's jaw. Mycroft feels his lungs fill at the feeling, comforted by the warmth of Greg's breath, the closeness of his voice—the thought that, at least for a while, he's no longer completely alone. "Baby?" his husband hums.

Mycroft smiles with amusement. He's done everything in his power to train out 'baby'; some things, it seems, are beyond his control. "Mm?"

"Want me to settle you?" Greg murmurs, slipping his hand down Mycroft's body. As his fingertips caress over the front of Mycroft's pyjama bottoms, Mycroft's stomach jumps; the gentle squeeze a moment later startles a moan from his mouth. "Might help switch your head off, at least... stop you thinking for a while..."

 _Oh, god._ "A-Are you certain?"

"Mmhm, 'course I am..." Greg shuffles down the bed, pushing back the sheets as he goes. "C'mere, love... let me look after you..."

As his husband's fingers curl around the waistband of his pyjamas, Mycroft's mouth opens on its own. Greg pulls gently; Mycroft shivers, closing his eyes, and lifts his hips for Greg to ease the fabric over his thighs. He looks down with a quiet swallow, watching wide-eyed and short of breath as Greg frees both his ankles and drops the bottoms out of bed. Fondly he pushes up the hem of Mycroft's shirt, exposing his belly and his chest to the darkness.

He kisses both.

He gazes up the bed as he descends, all soft dark eyes and scruffy hair.

"I love you..." he whispers, settling into place between Mycroft's thighs. Without a whisper of a pause, he stripes his tongue across Mycroft's already stirring cock. Mycroft draws a stiff breath, shivering. His head drops back into the pillow. "That's it..." his husband soothes, and begins to pet his bare stomach gently, accompanying the words with lazy and easy licks of his cock. "You just lie back for me, darlin'... close those tired eyes..."

Mycroft tightens a hand in the sheets, biting into his lip to keep from moaning. He's always loved this feeling; his husband, a god upon this earth, loves to give it. He's rather devoted himself to the artform.

Greg's fingers steal their way inside his grip. He catches Mycroft's hand, squeezes it, then moves it to its rightful place on the back of his head.

"Take as long as you need," he breathes, nuzzling into Mycroft's pubic hair. Mycroft's fingers tremble as they weave with hope between the soft silver strands, adoring them, his heart beating hard in the darkness. "Come whenever you want, love... you know I'll stay here 'til dawn, if you let me..."

Slowly he gathers Mycroft's cock into his mouth. Mycroft's fingers twitch with the sensation, his breath cracking in his throat. He feels his chest heave as Greg begins to suck, coaxing him to proper hardness, and a warm and animal rush of longing swoops at once through his stomach. His other hand finds its way nervously to the back of Greg's neck; Greg shivers at its touch, emitting a muffled groan.

The vibration sends sparks skittering between Mycroft's back and the sheets.

He arches with it, panting a little, and Greg's hands come up to wrap around his hips and guide his motions. His firm tongue continues its slow flicking of his mouthful. He sighs, a rush of warm breath over Mycroft's lower abdomen; he begins to slide back and forth.

It feels almost decadent just to lie here and let Greg tend to him—but it's all Mycroft's aching mind wants in the world. His thoughts blur away in the soft and slow warmth of his husband's mouth, gliding steadily up and down his cock for what feels like half the night. He lets Mycroft tug with restless longing at his hair; he lets him moan and shift and stretch as he needs, rocking up his hips when he begins to feel full. The quiet of the house, once looming and endless, grows soft as Mycroft fills it with weak and pleading sounds, unashamed for Greg to hear them. Even the hush of the sheets against his skin starts to arouse him. He can hear Greg's mouth around his cock, wet and slick and slow with every movement, and as he draws close, Greg cups and gently massages his aching balls in time. Mycroft whimpers, scrunching Greg's hair between his fingers; his hips buck up of their own volition. Greg's deep, rumbling hum of contentment soothes the last tattered threads of his mind, and when climax comes, it wells across his senses in a warm and comforting wave. The feeling floods his body with delicious, almost silvery little shivers; they tingle through his every nerve.

His husband's perfect mouth drinks them down.

Spent, boneless, Mycroft can only breathe as Greg crawls back up the bed to him. They kiss, a deep and desperate kiss which slows along with Mycroft's pulse, his entire body basking in the glut of comforting hormones.

He feels his husband smile against his mouth, pleased.

His heart strains in response.

"I adore you, gorgeous," his lover breathes.

Mycroft can hardly speak; his mind feels slackened out of shape with relief. "I-I love you, darling... I love you very much..."

"How about a cuddle now?"

 _Oh. Oh Christ, yes._ "Please..."

Mycroft is barely conscious of Greg retrieving his pyjamas from the side of the bed, then helping him gently back into them. By the time he's being gathered into the possessive warmth of his husband's arms, he feels so foggy and so sated a sleepy moan tumbles from his mouth.

Greg smiles against his cheek, kissing it; his ankle twines between Mycroft's feet.

"You're beautiful when you come," he whispers. "You know that? Always makes me feel like you need me..."

"I do," Mycroft whispers, sinking. He closes his hand tight on Greg's bare shoulder, every breath now soaking him in his husband's warm and masculine scent. He smells like their summer holidays in the Seychelles, bare skin and contentment and sex; his arms hold Mycroft tight. "Oh... Greg..."

"Sleep well, baby," his husband murmurs—and Mycroft is helpless to obey. "I'll see you in the morning."

 

*

 

Mycroft wakes, perfectly at peace, to sunlight on the curtains and the scent of frying food. The sheets beside him are empty; their en suite bathroom has been used, droplets of water clinging to the shower curtain.

Mycroft takes his dressing robe from the back of the door, pulls it on and slips downstairs.

He finds Greg in the kitchen, orchestrating a breakfast fit to be a final meal—fried bread and fried mushrooms, scrambled egg and cumberland sausages, more bacon than the two of them could possibly consume. A cafetiere steams quietly upon the table, ready beside two cups and saucers.

As Mycroft appears in the door, his heart drumming at this display of care, his husband turns round from the cooker with a smile.

"Thought I heard you," he says, fondly. He transfers another slice of fried bread to the ready-plated stack at his elbow. "What time's this fancy dinner tonight? 'Just sit beside me and smile', is it?"

"Seven," Mycroft manages, almost weak with affection. "I'll... have Anthea bring your suit to the..." He inhales, shivering a little. "Greg, this is really very sweet of you."

"S'fine, gorgeous. You know I like getting the chance to make a fuss of you." Greg takes the last slice of bread from the pan, sets it on the stack, then transfers the pan with care to the sink full of hot soapy water. It hisses softly as it sinks beneath the bubbles. "Besides. The best cure for a rough night is to have a good morning. So, without further ado..." He gestures to the table, smiling. "Good morning."

_God help me. You wonderful man._

"You already went to pains for my well-being," Mycroft mumbles, as Greg persuades him into a chair and pours him a coffee.

His husband grins, kissing his temple. "Funny definition of 'pain'..."

"You... went to trouble, then," Mycroft says. "You were inconvenienced. And I didn't even have the decency to reciprocate."

"You were unconscious, love—just as you should've been at three o'clock in the morning. If you'd tried, I'd have told you to get your paws off me and sleep." Greg settles into the chair right beside Mycroft, shunting it closer to sit side-by-side. Their elbows nestle as he picks up his knife and fork. "Repay it some night I need it," he says, and seems to enjoy Mycroft's flushed half-smile. His eyes sparkle with fondness. "Marriage is about looking after each other. And it's only a matter of time before work starts winding me up again."

That's certainly true, Mycroft thinks. Scotland Yard have a remarkable talent for stretching his husband too far at times—allowing Greg to exhaust himself in the line of duty, with no promise of compensation or gratitude. It's often down to Mycroft to soothe him through difficult investigations, coaxing him into hot baths every evening with a glass of red wine and a foot rub to follow.

 _I shall think of something nice for you,_ he decides, smiling to himself as Greg passes him the sugar bowl. He adds one lump to his coffee. _We'll go away for the weekend, perhaps. Somewhere with a spa. It might ease my insomnia, too._

"Will anybody fun be there this evening?" Greg asks, as Mycroft skewers himself a few fried mushrooms.

"Not particularly," he says. "It's all rather ceremonial, I'm afraid... I'll have to hobnob a little, as usual, but there'll be plenty of people there. With some artifice we can blend into the background, especially after dinner."

"Will there be wine?"

"There will."

"Good. That's me happy. If I get to see you intimidate a few pompous politicians, all the better."

Mycroft can't help a smile. "I'm certain I can oblige," he says, with a fond sideways glance, and feels his heart tug as Greg leans over and kisses his shoulder. "Thank you for taking care of me last night, darling... and thank you for cooking breakfast. I really do appreciate it."

His husband grins, proud.

"Don't mention it," he says. "There's no need for you to be unhappy, love. Not now I'm around."

 


End file.
